


$15 New, $15 Used

by Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkardness, Ben Solo Needs A Hug, Crack, Do I write anything that isn't awkward?, F/M, Of course it's awkward, Panty Kink, Sex Toys, Thirsty Rey, This isn't porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 17:19:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17791541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard/pseuds/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard
Summary: It's a matter of simple economic principles.  Supply and demand.  Rey supplies her used underwear to the market.  And Ben demands that nobody else purchase them.Which is unfortunate, since his purchasing power as a government employee is not that great.* * *For some fabulous ladies who deserve the best Valentine's Day ever.





	$15 New, $15 Used

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossingwinter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/gifts), [Ever-so-reylo (Ever_So_Reylo)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ever_So_Reylo/gifts), [jeeno2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/gifts).



He is in way too deep. Arguably, he was in too deep with the first pair of underwear.  Definitely by the second.  The vibrator—one which is sleek and pink and doubtless designed for _her_ pleasure, not his—it is not in _deep_ , because he has no idea what he is doing, but it represents his total failure as a man and a human being.  He is pretty sure.  He will take further stock of his poor life decisions after he finishes this attempt to stick Rey’s used vibrator in his ass. 

It started innocently enough.  He didn’t want her to get evicted.  Rey is a contractor, not a permanent employee, and when the government shuts down, none of them get paid but the contractors don't even get paid when it reopens. A lot of people have been selling their belongings  to make up the gap.  Rey does too.  But she didn’t have a lot in the way of belongings, and apparently there was not much interest in used space heaters or hand-knit mittens, which are the sort of belongings that Rey has accumulated. 

“So, I saw in my local buy-sell Facebook group that some girls sell their used underwear.  I’m going to try that,” she announced at lunch one day.  Ben nearly choked on his tahini/sprouts/vegenaise sandwich, but Finn saved him from being the one to tell Rey that is a terrible idea.  

“Peanut.  They are going to find pieces of you in a grain combine,” Finn told her.  “What kind of guy buys used underwear?” 

“See, only a city boy would say that,” Rey responded.  “A grain elevator, maybe, but you’d have to drive a long way from Alexandria to find one of those, and a grain combine would be a very inefficient way to hide a body, so….”

“Much more likely to find you floating in the Anacostia River,” Phasma agreed.  “But don’t let me stop you.”  

Ben thought about opening his mouth to rebuke Phasma, but realized that he agreed with her, so he took another bite of his sandwich and pleaded with Finn silently to make a better argument.

“Any guy who buys your used underwear is going to stalk and kill you, that’s a fact.  I saw it on Law and Order SVU once,” Finn announced.  

“I have seen every episode, and that wasn’t what happened,” Rey responded.  “You’re thinking of the one where the victim was a camgirl, and the guy figured out she lived by the clues in her bedroom and _then_ he killed her.  But also, he was her brother. So.” 

“It’s really a matter of logistics, then,” Poe said, slurping down half his can of grape Fanta at once and swallowing a burp. 

Rey turned to look at him and gave him an impressed look.  “Well, I’m open to suggestions,” she said.

“No identifiable details in your account or picture, and use an anonymous service for payment.  Drop them in the mail from work or something,” Poe said.  “Easy peasy.” 

Ben is too familiar with the feeling that is swimming in his stomach.  It is the same one he feels whenever Rey talks to him, or looks at him, or generally exists in the same space as him.  But, like, more. 

He is just worried about her.  Finn is right.  She is going to be chopped up by some kind of fetishist.  And if not, she is still likely to be evicted, because surely used underwear are some kind of commodity item?  There are a lot of underwear-possessing women in the world, and he has noticed that other men are inexplicably interested in the ones that aren’t Rey.  

Rey pulls out her phone. “Okay, I’m setting up a new Facebook account for Underwear Una.  Or Sexy Sadie? Dirty Denise?”

“Kinky Kira,” Poe says decisively.  Rey starts typing on her phone.  

“Got it.  My best pairs are going up for auction tonight. Rent’s due Friday,” Rey said, working on her screen.

“Excuse me,” Ben says, standing up with his tray and palming his phone through the pocket of his khakis. 

“Oh, what’s a little Title VII violation among friends?” Phasma calls after him mockingly.  

They think he has no sex drive.  That he’s a monk.  That he doesn’t have those kind of thoughts. 

They have no idea.  

He has to be the one to buy those underwear.

* *  *

He wins the auction.  It takes him longer than he hopes, scrolling through endless panties online, before he finds the buy-sell site of Kinky Kira.  He doesn’t need the name—he would have recognized Rey’s small, perky breasts under her Cookie Monster tank top if he were an hour from dying, even if she has cropped out her face from the profile picture. 

$35 for a pair of size S cotton bikini briefs with a mint-green stripe and a little lace edge, $55 for a plain black jersey boy-cut brief, and (best of all) $93 for a red satin thong with a tiny black silk bow right where the crack of Rey’s ass must have begun.

He sets up a new Venmo account under the name Kylo Ren and promptly wires the money.  Goes home to check his mail every day at lunch until the package arrives.  Says nothing, and sweats, when Rey crows about her profits at lunch the next day. 

But worst of all (best of all), he does not just throw the package into the trash like a good man would do. 

He is not a good man.

Instead, in the quiet and solace of his bedroom, he lifts them out of their packaging with shaking, reverent hands.  As though there are points for self-restraint at this point, he puts aside the true object of his desire and crushes the green cotton briefs in his damp palm before unzipping his khakis, pulling his boxers aside, and taking himself in hand.

He doesn’t do this much. Rarely feels the need.  And never outside of the shower—too much mess. 

But tonight he presses the panties to his nose with one hand and works himself roughly with the other. The faint scent of musk and Rey lingers even after days, and he comes fast (so fast, she would hate him for this too if she ever found out) and more satisfyingly than he’s felt in years. 

He drops them on his face, afterwards, and lies back on his bed, his own spunk cooling on his stomach. He is a waste of a human being. And he knows he will never, ever throw them out.

* * *  

The problem is that even once Congress decides to pay its bills, Rey appreciates her newfound source of extra income.

“There is a good margin of $10-$15 on every pair of panties I sell,” Rey says at lunch to a horrified Finn, fascinated Poe, and (disturbingly knowledgeable) Phasma.  “I mean, I have to wear underwear anyway, so why not just generate income via dress code standards?” 

She gets on her phone and gets ready to list another batch.

“Excuse me,” Ben says, standing and smoothing out his polo shirt.  “I need to go make some calls.”

* * * 

“You know,” Phasma says at Ackbar’s retirement party.  “There’s an even higher margin on other stuff.”

“Yeah?” Rey says, interested.  She has been talking about taking a weekend trip to the Catskills to go camping, and Ben knows she needs to buy a new pair of hiking boots.  Ben would buy her a pair of hiking boots.  He would drive her to the Catskills.  He would just give her the money, if she asked.

But he wonders what else she might be selling.  He has an entire drawer full of her used lingerie at this point, and he is masturbating more than he did at 13, and he hates it and he loves it.  He is so full of emotions and hormones that he feels like he will explode and set the building on fire.  (Which would be on-brand for him, but he tries not to be like that anymore).  

He is not a good man, and he stays silent and listens to her talk with Phasma. 

“Used sex toys,” Phasma says confidently.  “They go for the same price or higher than they do new.”

“Huh,” says Rey. “What’s the point in selling them at the same price?”

“Well, getting to try them out yourself, of course,” Phasma purrs.  “It’s like Rent the Runway but free.  And for toys.  Or, if you get insertables, they definitely command a 15% markup.”

The handle on Ben’s beer mug snaps in his hands, sending fountains of Pabst over his corduroys. The added attention to his groin is especially unwelcome, because he is immediately hard as a rock at the thought of Rey sticking anything in her pussy. 

“Excuse me,” he says, diving for his phone.  “I need to go text my family.” 

This is a lie.  He has not sent a text message to a blood relation since leaving home, and he only responds to voice calls from them on Sundays, and it is Friday night.

He turns to leave.   

“Hey, what about the tab?” Rey calls.  “Aren’t we going in halfsies on Ackbar’s chicken wings?”

“I’ll Venmo it,” he says. He has to get home before Rey posts anything else for sale.

 * * * 

They are talking about basketball today.  A very safe subject, if one in which Ben has zero interest.  Boring is good.  Nobody should imagine their coworkers doing anything other than watching basketball at home.  Nobody should imagine his coworker sticking her pink vibrator into her plump, wet pussy. Nobody should imagine that with one hand on his cock and one hand nudging that same vibrator into his own ass. Nobody should half hope and half fear that his coworker will start testing out sex toys as a side hustle, because they all make government salaries and Ben isn’t positive he can afford to keep Rey in new sex toys if she masturbates at the same pace he has been since she started selling things on Facebook.

Rey doesn’t have any opinions on basketball, which is unusual.  Rey has opinions on most things.  He loves hearing them.  He loves, in fact, most every thing about her.  He loves— 

“Excuse me,” Rey says. “I think I need to go get some things out of my car.  Ben, would you help me?”

“Uh, sure,” he says, standing and pulling down his argyle sweater until it covers the place where he has tucked his cock into the band of his khakis for safekeeping.  He is often asked to carry heavy things.   Rey usually prides herself on not asking for help, but he figures the stupidly unnecessary height and shoulders that make him look unfit for civil service have some use. 

He trails her out to her car in the third floor of the massive garage that flanks their agency. He can’t see any boxes or anything in the back, but she opens the trunk when they reach it.

It’s a rather small box, though, that she pulls from the trunk. 

He doesn’t quite understand, when she opens it.  It takes his brain endless, ticking seconds to catch up.  There are three objects inside. 

“Which one should I sell next?” Rey asks neutrally.

They’re sex toys.  A silicon cock ring with a small bullet vibe attached to the base.  An egg-shaped vibrator with studs.  A double-sided dildo over a neatly-folded harness.

The saliva in Ben’s mouth disappears.  Perhaps his body is preserving fluids so that it can replace the blood that has departed his face and brain and rushed south, never to return. 

Or maybe he will piss himself.   Horny and scared is not an unfamiliar combination to him, but he can’t recall ever feeling either emotion to the exact degree he feels at this moment. 

“What-“ he licks his lips. “How-“  he chokes, recovers.  “Why would you ask me?  Is this the stuff you were talking to Phasma about?”

“You don’t have an opinion on it, _Kylo Ren_?” Rey asks, a sweet edge to her voice.  

Scared is now overtaking horny.  This must be what having a heart attack feels like.  She could tell everyone they work with.  She could get him fired.  She could get angry at him and never speak to him again.  (This last is worst of all). 

“You used the same Venmo account to send me $6.48 for Ackbar’s chicken wings,” she said, eyes half-lidded and assessing.

Additional seconds ooze by like ketchup from a glass bottle.  

“I just didn’t want you to get evicted,” he says in a small voice, although that is half the story.

Rey recognizes that for the lie it is, and tosses her hair over her shoulder.

“So, do you like, wear them?” she asks, and her voice is a little annoyed.

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Ben decides he’s come this far, he might as well be honest before he lays down behind her car and asks her to put him out of their misery.

“No, that’s not what I do with them,” he says softly.  

“Well,” Rey says.  That statement is just an interjection.  It serves no real linguistic purpose.  She lets it linger, though, as if it were an answer. 

Ben’s shoulders slump, and he prepares to kneel behind her back wheels.  Maybe he would throw her car out of alignment, though, and he should do the polite thing and walk in front of a bus or something that can better handle his bulk than Rey’s Centra. 

“Well,” she says again. “I don’t think I quite understand. I think you need to show me.”

“Show you?” Ben asks. 

Rey licks her own lips.  

She looks nice, he thinks, too late.  She always looks nice to Ben, of course.  But today she is wearing lipstick , and her lips are pink and glossy. 

“What you do with my panties,” Rey says.

Ben’s brain doesn’t work. Of course it can’t function without oxygen or blood, and all his blood volume is, he presumes, resident in his cock, and if he never breathes again, he will quickly run out of oxygen.

Rey opens the back driver’s side door of her car.  “Luckily, I have a pair with me,” she says.  “I’ll have to take them off, but that will be a jiffy.”

She bends over to crawl into the back seat, then looks back over her shoulder. 

“Well,” she says again. “You coming?”

He is.  He does.


End file.
